


Snap Shot

by Fluffinson (orphan_account)



Category: Dark (Netflix)
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M, Past Molestation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 11:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13166064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Fluffinson
Summary: 1986 - Bernd wants to take a picture.Helge can't smile when he's next to the man.





	Snap Shot

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by that weird little sequence in episode three where Bernd is cleaning out his desk and there's pictures of Helge.
> 
> Also...follow me on tumblr if you so desire....
> 
> https://helgerich.tumblr.com/  
> https://fluffinson.tumblr.com/

 

 

 

It's a family photo - is how Bernd explains it to Helge.

It always starts that way. An innocent request.

It doesn't really matter because Helge doesn't have the option of saying no.

Bernd gives him the time and date and directions to a photo studio where he's rented out time. It doesn't matter that it's public, it's never mattered before.

It doesn't happen.

It doesn't happen _anymore_.

Helge acknowledges the fact.

Still, it feels like something slick - like a grimy film of oil over his skin - when he has to face his father. Sweat damps his hair and his mouth goes dry. He feels trapped, unable to move, underwater, time stopped and _sick_.

The last time it happened was when Helge was twelve. Bernd had run a hand through his sweaty hair, hand lingering on his ravaged face and lamented that the man couldn't have at least waited until Helge's _formative_ years were over.

It was the way Bernd still looked at him. Recalling past glories and always with that irrefutable sense of ownership.

Like he still owned Helge. Like his touch still lingered.

Helge hated that it was true.

 

 

The studio is a small 10' by 12' space. The photographer is a young man. He's friendly, riding the fine balance of toned down punk in order not to outrage his older customers.

"What color you want for the background, boys?" he asks.

"White." Bernd says without hesitation. He reaches out and Helge reluctantly moves closer so the old man can grasp his arm, "for my pure boy."

"Man I wish my Dad was like you." The photographer quips as he rolls down a canvas. "So sweet."

Helge's stomach is roiling. The tight grip on his forearm scalds like a brand.

"Smile." The photographer says when they're situated next to each other.

Helge standing stiffly next to Bernd's wheelchair.

Helge can't smile.

The photographer tsks unhappily, "how about I do a couple of them?"

It doesn't matter, Helge knows they're all going to be the same.

Eventually the man tires of it and moves on to portraits.

"Get my Helge." Bernd says. "His portrait's the important one. He already has pictures of me."

"That's sweet." The man says.

Bernd is lying. Helge doesn't even keep one.

"Alright then, let's get some good glamour shots." he tries to pep but it falls flat.

Helge's expression doesn't change. He tries, after some prompting, but his expression probably worsens. He's thinking of Bernd looking at the pictures afterward and seeing him smile.

"Well, I think we got it." The photographer says after a while, although it's apparent they don't.

Helge's glad he's given up and gets his coat. Bernd has a driver waiting and there isn't any reason for Helge to stay. But then the photographer is handing over his camera to Bernd and taking keys out from his jacket.

"I'll give you about forty minutes, yeah?" he asks Bernd.

Bernd nods, "That'll be perfect."

Helge's frozen still even after the man leaves.

"I thought we could take some pictures Helge, just you and I," Bernd begins, "or maybe just you."

Helge wants to get it over with.

It's only forty minutes.

It's only a month until Bernd's retirement and then Helge will have a new employer.

"Why don't you sit over there and take off your sweater."

Helge does it. He isn't surprised when Bernd tells him to get on the floor instead, that he's not low enough for Bernd's angle.

Helge swears all the blood leaves his body. His ears buzz.

"That's good Helge, such a good boy. Why don't you unbutton your shirt a little too? And turn your face to the side so I can't see the scar."

The worst thing, about when it happened, is that Helge didn't even know it was wrong. To a certain point, physically, it had felt good. The words of praise had felt even better.

Each word that tumbles from Bernd's mouth _now_ sits heavy and tart in Helge's stomach.

The shame is paralyzing.

"Just one Helge." Bernd is saying where Helge has tuned him out, "just to see how you've changed."

Helge can't comprehend the meaning behind the words.

"Take off the rest of your clothes and then you can put them back on in a minute."

Helge's fingers are numb, they don't work.

"I could have your job you know. I could have your home." Bernd warns but still Helge can't get the buttons undone.

Bernd wheels closer and rips all the buttons off in one sharp tug.

Later no one notices. Helge's shirt pokes out of his sweater, a little less tidy with no buttons, but no one notices.

 

 

 

That night, Noah comes around.

 

 

 

 


End file.
